Mrs Starling
by Cecelia S. Bradley
Summary: I loved them, didn't I? Every mother loved their children. And I was doing what was best for them, wasn't I? -the disillusionment of disaster


When they were twelve, I sent them away. The children, I mean. I told them, "Your father and I were both millionaires by the time we were _ten_, but you do nothing for yourselves, nothing. You're useless. Go away and become something useful. I know you could have a long time ago." When they protested, "We're twelve! We're too young!" I had said, "Between the three of you, you have thirty-six years of experience and goodness, that's enough."

And then I had ordered them away. No hugs, no kisses, no sentimentality. I had never been one for that kind of sentiment. But I loved them, didn't I? Every mother loved their children. And I was doing what was best for them, wasn't I? Every mom did what was best for their kids, right?

Right?

I couldn't tell them the real reason. I couldn't even tell myself the truth, that they hurt me every day. Oh, they weren't trying to, but every time my daughter smiled, I saw my husband's smile. Every time the boys finished each other's sentences, I remembered how we were so close, we could do that, too. And every time they said, "This is such a good day" or "Life couldn't get better," I thought of him and how _my_ life could _never _be perfect without him. I tried to love, tried to care for my children, but my pain stood in the way. I couldn't love them when I had once loved him. I had loved being Mrs. Starling, wife, but being Mrs. Starling, mother, was _so_ hard. That stroke that had killed my husband had killed me too, and seeing those little "hims," those mini reflections of the man I had cherished, they killed me too. And since I couldn't let _him _go, I let _them_ go.

And my life became a little easier.

Four years passed. Some of my friends dropped me because they didn't understand, and some of them simperingly pretended to understand, so I dropped them. I went to see my children in their mansion once a month, but each visit brought back that blister I thought had callused over back, so I praised them for their success, rubbed in that I had been right after all, and quickly left. I _did_ find it funny that they had started dressing alike, but when I asked my daughter, she said that it united them and made them feel together. I felt somewhat guilty then, so I cut that already short visit down. But I didn't ever worry about them because they were doing so perfectly. That much was obvious.

What? It was!

One morning in August, I was going for my monthly visit. I had talked to them yesterday before they had left for some relative's funeral, so I expected them to be there. But all the lights were out at their place, and a note was taped to the door, "Gone to Philadelphia. Be back some time." I figured it was for their business, so I left, not thinking at all about it. I drove home and, deciding to find a good recipe for myself and a friend coming over for lunch, turned on my laptop. I pulled up the internet to go to Google, but I stopped for a second over an article on the homepage. "Breaking News," it said. "Explosion at Franklin Institute, Philadelphia." Reading the article out of curiousity, I learned that a few teenagers had been caught in the explosion and were in critical condition, but I figured that my children were too smart for that and wouldn't have gone there anyway.

And I completely forgot about it.

I was putting dishes in the dishwasher when the phone rang. I will never forget that call: "Hello? Is this Mrs. Starling? Hello, Mrs. Starling, this is Dr. Goodwin from the Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia. Your children were caught in an explosion at the Franklin Institute. They, well, Mrs. Starling, they don't seem to be doing well. I suggest you come quickly. Yes, all three. No, none are dead. Yes, they're together. We thought they might find some strength in that. We-we don't know. Yes, that's fine. Thank you. Goodbye."

I might have cried then.

That was the first time I had cried since my husband had died. And the entire flight to Philadelphia, I realized how wrong I had been. They were independent, definitely, but they needed me. That is, they needed a person to care for them and protect them, to make sure they were okay. Always okay. I didn't think I fit that description. And now, I could put a finger on that emptiness in me. For the past few years, my life had been simpler, happier. But that simplicity was sacrificial, that happiness was shallow. And that hole that I hadn't even seen in me was so big, it completely swallowed me now.

I had been so stupid.

Sitting beside their three beds was a nightmare. Watching them not move, hearing them not speak, feeling their hands not warm, never warm, was unbearable. Two weeks I waited there, rarely leaving my post at their side. Two weeks I remembered everything I had done wrong, everything I might not every be able to fix. Two weeks I tried to brace myself for the inevitable, that they would die, too. And it was all my fault.

My fault.

But then Sinead opened her eyes. And smiled. And somehow, I saw Sinead's smile for its own. And I found myself letting go of my husband, like I should have years ago. And then the boys awoke. And they realized that I was there at the same time I realized they were alive. Even though Ted could not see, he found me in the room. Even though Ned's headache throbbed in his head like it was about to kill him, he hugged me. And even though Sinead, who had never forgiven me for sending them away, was still probably really sore, she said, "I love you, Mom."

Never before had I been so proud to be Mrs. Starling.

Mrs. Starling, mother.


End file.
